


A Study In Soufflés

by impliedcomplications



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Food, M/M, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22363729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impliedcomplications/pseuds/impliedcomplications
Summary: Thorin Durin has inherited a sinking ship of a restaurant from his grandfather and once internationally recognized chef Thror Durin. Living in the shadow of Lonely Mountain’s former glory, Thorin is struggling to rebuild its reputation into something he can be proud of. Enter Bilbo Baggins, a trained pastry chef who, despite his talent, never made it out of his family’s small bake shop in the rural town of Shire. If anyone can help ignite the creative spark Thorin needs make Lonely Mountain a success again, surely it must be this small, unassuming baker. At least, that’s what investor Gandalf Olórin keeps telling him.This is a tale of gastronomic adventure about the delicate rise of a damaged business fostered by the flour coated hands of a quiet, if not a little nervous tempered, pastry chef. Burned bridges are examined, reputations are nurtured, and two chefs learn that the ability to rise to the top is a skill that cannot be learned alone.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 49
Kudos: 99





	1. Beetroot Salad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something sweet to tempt the palate

It wasn’t that cakes were boring, per se. Cakes were fine. Cakes paid the bills. So did muffins and scones. And that was fine; it was all fine. And if nobody was tempted to try Bilbo Baggins’s lemon and rhubarb brûlée tart, well that was fine too. And if that’s what Bilbo needed to tell himself to through another five days of work, well then that’s what he was going to do. He was content, and content meant comfortable. The small man, a devotee of sweaters and cardigans, rather liked being comfortable.

And so Bilbo resigned himself to another day delicately piping royal icing, whipping buttercream, and pouring batters and doughs into and onto their respective tins. It wasn’t all that bad at Bag End Bakery; it just wasn’t what Bilbo had been expecting after pastry school. Growing up at his mother’s elbow had taught him much of the basics and nobody was surprised when the child perpetually covered in flour grew up to be a young man with his mind always working on a new sugary creation. He had returned from the University of Gondor’s School of Pastry after four years with job applications out to all of the prestigious fine dining establishments and patisseries he could think of, but when his dear mother asked him to come home, asked him to help and learn the ropes of business ownership, his heart lead him back to Shire. It wasn’t glamorous; there were no write ups on Bilbo Baggins, Pastry Chef in _Hoarde Food Magazine_ , but it was a comfortable living in a place near and dear to his heart.

Belladonna Baggins passed away years ago, leaving her son to navigate the business on his own. With the business came the patrons who relied upon the safety of vanilla or (when they were feeling adventurous) chocolate cake. A lemon and poppy seed scone might be the go-to on a summer day or perhaps a cinnamon apple muffin to bring some comfort in the winter. Bilbo learned the hard way that pouring resources into passion fruit curd and persimmon tarts was a one-way ticket to a stock that refused to leave the shelves. Now he found himself directing his handful of employees day in and day out to make the same staple treats for his less-than-discerning customers.

The bell above the shop door gave a pleasant little jingle, causing Bilbo to jerk out of his pastry daydreams. A man of seemingly rickety build was standing in the doorway, beaming at the small man in the kitchen located just behind the counter.

“Bilbo Baggins! It’s been awhile since I’ve made it out this way. Let’s see what’s on the menu today...” He approached the glass case next to the register, surveying its contents. “Tell me what I want.”  
  
“I’d be a poor businessman if I didn’t say one of everything, old friend.” Bilbo stepped forward and selected a cherry scone and placed it on a plate. “Coffee today, Gandalf?”

“Of course,” said the man, taking a seat at one of the small tables scattered about the bakery. He looked past Bilbo as the small man set his breakfast down in front of him and glanced into the kitchen. “You must be getting tired of all of this, my boy.”

“Gandalf…” A warning. Gandalf didn’t come around often, but when he did the conversations inevitably turned toward Bilbo’s seeming inability to leave the family bake shop. This time, he had wasted no time in returning to his favorite topic. 

“My boy, I’m serious. Prim could handle the shop by herself and you know that this is the type of work she loves. And with a baby on the way, staying this close to home is perfect for her and Drogo. You have such talent, Bilbo and I--”  
  
“You,” said Bilbo, wagging a finger at the elderly man, “need to drink that coffee before it gets cold.”

Gandalf huffed in his seat and took a sip of his drink. An uncomfortable, but familiar silence fell in the shop. Bilbo hated mid-week afternoons. Business was slow and there was never enough for him to keep his mind and hands occupied. His mind raced and he was unable to stop himself from thinking of the possibilities. “Besides,” he began from the kitchen, resuming piping icing onto a batch of sugar cookies, “I have nowhere to go. I haven’t done anything ‘professional’ since pastry school. As if anyone would hire me at this point.”

Gray eyes peered at him over horn rimmed glasses. “Don’t pretend like you aren’t concocting special treats for yourself and Prim’s family when you’re at home. I’ve been to some of your little parties, Bilbo, I know what you can do and you sell yourself short. Now I can’t invest into a single individual but--”  
  
A curly head of hair shot up from where it was bent over a cookie. “I don’t want your money, Gandalf, we’ve been through this. It’s just… it’s… you know.” Fingers lightly stained with dye gestured vaguely around the little establishment. “It’s mum’s place.”

Gandalf’s face softened a touch. “But it’s never been _your_ place. At least not since you were a boy. Think on it, Bilbo. You could do so much, but not here.”

He was right, of course. Gandalf was always right somehow. The thing was, though, that Gandalf always managed to make things sound so easy. Bilbo supposed it was like that when absurd amounts of money coming from a source that Bilbo could never quite nail down eased the way a bit for the old man. Gandalf had a knack for finding the best little holes in the wall and financially nurturing them to greatness and financial profitability. Bilbo had his suspicions that it was some kind of magic, but he couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was, it always made Bilbo think, for just a little while, that he really could just leave this place his mother left for him to take care of and make his way as something more.

“Where would I go?”

A slow smile grew under a gray beard. “I have… let’s call him a friend. He’s a lot like you, actually. Stuck at his father’s restaurant and going nowhere fast. He could use someone like you.”

“And where exactly is this friend of yours and what kind of place is he running? I’m not just going to go running to some random chef, Gandalf.” By now Bilbo had moved out of the kitchen and was sitting across from his friend. “I can’t just pack up and leave on a whim.”  
  
“Of course you can! Listen, I’ll bring Thorin down -- his name is Thorin -- from Erebor. Throw together some desserts. Whatever it is you would make for Prim and Drogo at home, that’s what Thorin needs to try. Just meet with him, talk shop, and see where it goes.”

“Erebor, Gandalf? I’m not risking my business on some gig an hour and a half away.”

“This isn’t just ‘some gig,’ my boy.” Gandalf rummaged in the leather bag resting against his chair and pulled out a tablet. Nimble fingers darted across the screen until it was turned to Bilbo. A web page was pulled up reading _Lonely Mountain_ at the header. Bilbo scrolled down, reading through the menu, the buzzword-filled blurbs describing “world class cuisine” and “a kitchen rich in tradition,” and found himself face to face with owner Thorin Durin. He had a pretty face, Bilbo would give him that.

Bilbo looked up from the screen. “Am I supposed to know him?”

A sad sigh escaped from under Gandalf’s beard. “If things had been different, perhaps you would. Once upon a time, his grandfather built up one of the best restaurants I have ever had the pleasure of dining at. Things… aren’t quite the same. Bridges burned. A few too many lackluster reviews. If we’re being honest, Thorin was given a bad hand. But I believe that you could help him. Give it a try? For an old friend?” The old man’s eyes twinkled behind his glasses. A silence fell. Then a sigh.  
  
“And if I agree? Gandalf, I’m not going to spend three hours a day for 5 days in a car to make desserts for a sinking ship.”

“Oh don’t even worry about that, my boy. I’ll put you up in a flat downtown until you’ve got your feet under you. Let’s call it an investment, shall we?” Chestnut eyebrows flew up to Bilbo’s hairline. A hand shot out to cover his mouth before he could utter his disagreement. “Now, now I won’t hear any complaints. I always told Belladonna that you could go far with a little pushing. This is my little push,” he said with a smile. “Let’s do this one day at a time. I’ll bring Thorin over. If he likes what you do, we can talk accommodations.” 

Another sigh. “Fine. Just give me some time to talk things over with Prim, yeah?”

And so it was decided that at four in the afternoon the following Sunday, Thorin Durin would be paraded in by Gandalf Olórin and things would unfold (or not) from there. He would have a little under a week to come up with a dessert lineup that he felt showcased his talents (or what was left of them, anyway).

Friday night’s family dinner saw Bilbo spreading out recipes and concept sketches out for Prim and Drogo to look through. “I mean, are poached pears too simple? Is simplicity _in_ right now? I don’t even know. I looked through the menu and-- now I don’t want to sound rude-- but it just breaks my heart, Prim. Vanilla crème brûlée? That’s all they can bring to the table? It’s just sad, Prim. Just sad.”

Across from him, hands resting on a belly that seemed to grow every time Bilbo saw her, was Prim, his dear cousin-through-marriage and ever-present voice of reason who always seemed to take everything in stride. “I don’t see what you’re being so fussy about, dear. Just make what you want to make and I’m sure it will be lovely; it always is.”

Bilbo, refusing to lose his momentum, looked up at her. “And what about you?! Good lord, what if none of this works and I leave you here for nothing? I can’t do that to you. Not with the baby on the way.”

“Bilbo...”

“And what if something happens while I’m in Erebor? I know it’s only 90 minutes, but you know how traffic in the city is...”

“Bilbo!” 

The man sat in a chair opposite his cousin, head falling into his hands. “It’s just so much, Prim,” he whispered. 

Small hands reached out and gently scooped up his shaking ones. “It’s just baking Bilbo, that’s all you’re being asked for here. It’s just what you’ve been doing since your mum let you in the kitchen.” Soothing pressure along his knuckles helped ease Bilbo’s shaky breaths. “You get so worked up sometimes, dear, I don’t know what to do with you. Let’s just take this --”  
  
“-- one step at a time.” It came out with a chuckle. “You sound like Gandalf,” Bilbo said, a smile working its way onto his face. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you around. You really think these will work? And you’re sure you want to take on Bag End by yourself?”  
  
“Never by herself.” Drogo Baggins, in all his quiet stoicism had remained mostly silent up until now, thumbing through the papers that were strewn on the kitchen table. “You’ve always made sure we have everything we need, Bilbo. I think it’s time we make sure you’re getting what you need.”

Prim gave Bilbo’s hands a squeeze. “I have Drogo and Gaffer and the Brandybuck boys helping me out. Just like you were never alone, dear. And yes, I believe you can do this and that no matter what you end up putting together, it will be your best.”

And so they sat, looking at a list on the table with desserts written, crossed out, rewritten, added, and removed. And after, when Prim and Drogo had said their goodbyes, Bilbo sat in his little living room looking at his list.

_Pears Poached in Mulled Wine_

_Grapefruit Sorbet_

_Poppy Seed Meringue Thumbprints with Lemon Curd_

_Acorn Petit Four_

Two days. He had two days to pretend like this single Sunday evening wasn’t going to be the most terrifying few hours of his life. He went to bed that evening thanking his lucky stars that Prim and Drogo were around to keep him right. For now, anyway.


	2. Fried Green Tomatoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crunchy barrier concealing a sweet and sour treat. Not for everyone, but some find it strangely palatable.

Saturday’s dinner service had been much the same as Friday’s, Thursday’s, Wednesday’s, and Tuesday’s. That is to say it was slow, uneventful, and easy for the kitchen staff at Lonely Mountain to keep up with. The staff in question was a well oiled machine, even if that machine was steam powered in a world run by electricity. With the kitchen closing at nine, just a half hour away, Thorin was busy helping with cleanup. He couldn’t give the loyal bunch much, be he could at least make sure he was on the line during service and in the trenches cleaning up at close.

The kitchen door cracked open, followed by a polite cough from the doorway. Thorin looked up, seeing his head of staff peering warily into the kitchen. “You’ve got to be kidding. Balin, we’re thirty minutes to close, nobody ever comes in this late.”

“Are you always so rude within earshot of your guests, Durin?” A gray head of hair pushed its way through the door from behind Balin.

“I am if my guest is a busybody who shows up when we’re trying to close shop. Look at all these lads you’ve disappointed,” he said, gesturing to the smiling faces of the Lonely Mountain kitchen crew. “Take a seat, Gandalf, we’ll get you taken care of. Dwalin! Do we have what we need for roast chicken and green beans?”   
  
“Aye, I reckon we might,” came the gruff reply from down the line.

“Get to work, then!” Thorin turned back to his guest. “And you’ll be having a beer like the rest of us, Dori’s too old to be talking wine passed eight, if we’re being honest.” A few chuckles escaped the staff. Thorin ushered Gandalf out to the dining area, now vacant, and sat him down at one of the tables that remained set from dinner service. “What brings you out to the big city today, my friend?”

“Come now; must I have an excuse some old family friends?”

“Somehow I have trouble believing you do anything without an excuse.” Thorin settled in his chair across from Gandalf, arms crossed. “So are you going to tell me what you’re up to?”

Bushy eyebrows closed in on gray eyes. “Only if you tell me what  _ you’re _ up to.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Thorin leaned forward, suddenly feeling like he understood the path he was being led down. 

“Roast chicken and green beans, Thorin? How long has this been on the menu?”

The chef pushed himself away from the table and stood, looming over the elderly patron. “If you think you can come here and question my food and hospitality, you can get out of my restaurant. There’s the door.”   
  
“Oh for goodness’ sake, sit down you great oaf before you make a fool of yourself.”

Thorin leaned in further. “I am  _ not  _ having this conversation with you again.”

Despite the hulking man stooping over him, Gandalf laughed. “What conversation? My goodness, Thorin, your temper does you little credit, my boy. Haven’t I been a friend to you and your family? Sit down.”

Begrudgingly, Thorin sat.

“Now will you kindly tell me how many seasons the dish has been on the menu for?”

“It’s a staple, Gandalf. I can’t just  _ get rid _ of it!” Bushy eyebrows lifted to the brim of the flat cap that never seemed to leave the man’s head. A question, though unspoken, hung in the air between them. “What do you want me to say? It keeps people coming in and right now that’s all I can ask for.”

Another polite cough announced the arrival of Balin carrying a plate of chicken and a side of green beans and shallots. He set it in front of Gandalf, “I trust everything is alright out here? Everyone playing nicely?”

“Pish tosh! You know I always play nice,” said Gandalf with a smile. “We’re doing just fine out here; just talking shop.”

“I’m more worried about my hot-headed cousin, but I’ll take your word for it.” With a smile and a bow, he was off to the kitchen to help finish with clean up.

“Now…” With a sudden seriousness, Gandalf turned his attention back to Thorin. “You’re telling me that this,” he gestured to his plate, “is all you can ask of your crew? I’ve seen what you make when Dís is home and it isn’t this. Dwalin has one of the most adventurous palates I’ve ever seen and you know Bombur can make just about anything you throw at him. And you sit here telling me that your best is roast chicken.” He carefully lifted a forkful into his mouth. After swallowing, he continued, “Why don’t you want Fili in the kitchen, Thorin?”

The chef deflated. “I remember being his age, being in culinary school. I remember Grand Da before things started becoming,” he waved a hand and gestured around the building, “this. I’m doing what I have to do to keep people coming in. Fili… Fili deserves to go somewhere where he can grow. This isn’t it.”

“So change!” By some miracle Gandalf managed to avoid throwing beans across the restaurant as his hands flew into the air. “Good god, Thorin! You act as though I’m asking you to tear the place down and rebuild! You just need some direction, some new blood; someone to breathe some curiosity and life back into this place!”

“Gandalf, I haven’t had applications for anything higher than waitstaff since I took over. Hell, I’ve even had to cut staff. When was the last time you saw Bofur around here? The man never has anything to do anymore.”

“What if I said I knew someone who would happily take the position?”

Thorin scoffed. “And who exactly is this someone so desperate for a job they’d take a position at Lonely Mountain?”

“He’s best pastry chef I know and perhaps ‘desperate’ isn’t quite the right word. He’s been stuck at a business handed down to him by his mother for years now. I believe the boy is ready to move on-- has to stop holding on to family traditions and make his own.” A sly grin crept Gandalf’s lips. “Sound familiar?”

A silence fell on the dining room as Thorin considered the offer. How a pastry chef would single handedly rebuild the Lonely Mountain reputation, he wasn’t quite sure. It was a single course, maybe two, at the end of a meal and Lonely Mountain was not a patisserie. Then again… his thoughts strayed to the memories of his grand da handing little tartlets to Dís, Frerin, and himself, fresh off the cooling racks and filled with curds, custard, or fruit. It was a no-frills dessert that never failed to bring him back to a time when his brother was alive and his sister hadn’t been putting her own life in danger following the footsteps of Frerin and his father Thrain. Maybe…

“When can I take my crew to meet this guy?”

And so Thorin found himself aimlessly driving around the backroads of a podunk town almost two hours from his restaurant the next day. Somehow he was starting to doubt that a pastry chef of any renown would be stationed out in these boondocks. Then again, Thorin was aware of Beorn Ursus’s little setup in the middle of nowhere, so he could be wrong. Knowing whether or not he was wrong would be much easier if he could find this stupid little bakery where he was supposed to meet Gandalf, Balin, Dwalin, Bombur, Dori, and Fili. This was ridiculous.

“This is ridiculous,” muttered the man, hands gripping the steering wheel in a way that made it seem like his lack of direction was the vehicle’s fault. Another left turn brought him to what appeared to be the main street of Shire and sure enough there was Gandalf’s little coupe parked outside of an unassuming little brick building. And next to the unassuming building stood Gandalf and an unassuming little man flailing his hands and looking displeased. As he pulled up, words filtered into the car from outside.

“One person, Gandalf! You said Thorin -- who isn’t even  _ here _ , by the way-- would be coming. I didn’t ask for an entire troupe!”

Thorin stepped out of the car, “I’d thank you not to compare my staff to a circus. I’m afraid I’m the only one who reserves that right. Thorin Durin at your service, Mr…?”

“...Baggins. Bilbo Bagins.” The man-- Bilbo-- looked him over. “I thought you’d be taller. And on time. Please go on in and sit down. I’ll be with you in a moment.” He moved to the door of the bakery and swung it open, gesturing inside to where Thorin’s “troupe” sat, looking equal parts confused and amused with dessert spoons placed in front of each seat. 

Blue eyes surveyed the man in front of him. He was a bit soft around the edges and had the appearance of taste tester more than that of a professional pastry chef. “Thank you, I am eager to meet your employer, Mr. Baggins. It is good of him to hire a staff who is clearly so fond of his food.” He strode in, leaving the curly headed baker sputtering behind him. The door shut and he took a seat, glancing behind him to see the man slowly turning an alarming shade of red. His mouth moved, muttering something Thorin couldn’t hear, but the first letter was most certainly an F. At his side was Gandalf, clearly fighting the urge to double over in laughter. 

The shop door flung open, the little bell above it pleasantly jingly despite its owner’s frustrations. “If you’d be so kind as to direct your attention to  _ my employer _ in the kitchen,” Bilbo said as he stomped into the tiny space where two pears stained red sat next to a saucepan. The air, now that Thorin was taking in the space, smelled of mulled wine. 

He watched as Bilbo spooned some liquid from the saucepan onto the pears, brought them over to the table, and set them down with a clatter. “Pears, poached in spiced wine and filled with mascarpone.” He moved back into the kitchen without another word.

Dwalin leaned over, elbowing Thorin’s ribs. “Lad’s a little spitfire, eh? He was actually pretty pleasant before your ugly mug showed up.” A tattooed hand gently used his spoon to poke at the pear. 

“Presentation’s a bit understated, if we’re being honest,” Thorin observed.

“Well sorry I’m not drowning in gold leaf over here,  _ Mr. Durin _ !” The cry from the kitchen was politely ignored by Thorin.

“Be nice to the boy, lads,” said Bombur, seated across from Thorin. Lonely Mountain’s sous chef turned to the youngest member of the group. “I’m mighty sorry you have to see your uncle be such a child, Fili. Take a bite, lad, tell me what you think.”

Meanwhile, the oldest members of the party had departed from their seats and were peering into the kitchen, watching Bilbo work. “Bombur’s quite right, laddie.” Thorin heard Balin’s voice behind him. “Don’t pay any mind to Thorin. He gets in a right mood when he remembers how directionally challenged he is.”

That earned him a muffled snort from where Bilbo’s head was tucked inside a freezer.

“I haven’t had the pears yet, dear, but could you tell me what you’ve poached them with?” Dori, the seasoned sommelier of Lonely Mountain, stood by patiently at the counter that divided kitchen and restaurant.

“Merlot,” was the reply. Thorin glanced over his shoulder to see Bilbo extricate himself from the freezer carrying a deep pan of a pale orange substance. “It’s more delicate than some of its other dry counterparts. The dish is about the pears, not the wine, after all.”

Thorin couldn’t see Dori’s response, but found no fault with Bilbo’s answer himself. The pair sauntered back toward the tables for a taste of the prepared dish.

The assembled team picked apart the pears slowly, murmuring to themselves and making mental notes. “Uncle? This is really good. Maybe… try being a bit nicer so we can have more?” Fili, still in culinary school himself, chewed on a mouthful of pear.

His uncle grunted. The kid was right, he knew that. One strong dish was hardly talent, though, so he sat quietly, waiting for the next dish. He didn’t have to wait long. As the pear dwindled down, Bilbo set four small bowls containing orange spheres flecked with green.

“After your heavy and warming winter dish, I have some spring grapefruit sorbet with mint to cleanse the palate. My apologies if the lack of diamond garnish isn’t to your liking, your highness,” he added with a mock bow to Thorin as he retreated once again into the kitchen.

“Smart move,” Dwalin rumbled has he dug a spoon into the sorbet. He remained silent as the flavors settled on his tongue.

“How thoughtful,” Bombur mused. “A seasonal array of desserts. Will be having some summer next?” 

The question was loud enough to be heard into the kitchen where Bilbo stood smiling and hunched over a stand mixer. “You got it!” 

Dwalin elbowed Thorin again. “Thank god you were such an ass, eh? Can’t wait to go back to crème brûlée and fucking  _ lava cake _ every fucking night. Can you manage to keep your mouth shut long enough for us to get the rest of the food?”

Another grunt. So maybe he had come on a little aggressive, but he was the one here recruiting for  _ his _ restaurant, wasn’t he? Thorin stuck another spoonful of sorbet into his mouth. It was good. It was really good. And to have the forethought to throw together a  _ themed _ tasting…

Spoons clinked against bowls and quiet conversation carried through the group as the little chef puttered about the kitchen, fanning the little meringue cups he had just taken out of the oven. Fili had removed himself from the table and began slowly easing his way toward the kitchen. Thorin looked on as a short while later his nephew watched the man spoon bright yellow liquid into the little meringues. “I have enough for everyone,” Bilbo said. “Would you be a dear and help me get these to the table…?” His nose scrunched up in a way Thorin may have described as adorable if he wasn’t busy trying to determine if he should hire the guy. “Oh I’m so sorry, I know we were introduced when you arrived, but I’ve forgotten-- what’s your name, dear?”

“Fili Nainson. I’m Thorin’s nephew. I’m uh… yeah. Yeah, let me take some of those plates.”

“You’re one of the Lonely Mountain crew, then?” Bilbo smiled as the pair gathered up the desserts.

“No I’m… uh. I’m still in culinary school. Uncles says--”

“That you should help clear our places if you’re considering taking up work here,” Thorin interrupted as new desserts were set in front of the group.

Fili stood rigid, “Yes chef!” He began picking up plates and bowls from around the table, stopping only when he felt Bilbo’s hand on his arm.

“None of that, you’re my guest. Sit. Eat. I’ll take care of it. Before I clear everything away, I have for you all a poppy seed meringue with a lemon curd filling to escort you into summer. Enjoy!” And with the dish properly introduced, he made his way around the group cleaning up empty dishware. As he passed Thorin, he swore he heard a mumbled, “Yes chef, my arse.” 

The team got to work once again diving into this new plate. The meringue, Thorin had to admit, was perfect. The poppy seeds were a pleasant textural contrast to the chewing meringue. The lemon curd brought him back to a time when he would stand at his grandfather’s elbow watching him turn lemon and eggs into liquid sunshine. It made him feel (and he hated himself for this) pleasant. 

“Could you smile for once, laddie? It’s delicious.” Thorin looked up to where Balin was staring at him expectantly. A scowl had managed to affix itself to his face. Next to Balin Gandalf was smirking. He was an insufferable old man if Thorin ever knew one.

“Bilbo, my boy, what will fall bring us?” Gandalf asked.

“A broken hip, if you’re not careful, old friend,” came the reply.

Hearty laughs erupted from Bombur, Dwalin, and Dori. “And quick witted to boot! Where did you find him, Gandalf?” Bombur’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he looked over to Bilbo who was busy spooning a dark glaze over tiny cakes.

“When you’re in the business as long as I’ve been, Bombur, you get a knack for finding gems like Bilbo. Although I must say, Bilbo is certainly a one-in-a-million find.”

Bilbo, apparently done in the kitchen for the time being, came over and sat next to his friend. “I’m not sure I’d say that. I’m just a Baggins, nothing special. Just had a mum that didn’t mind a little sprout like me at her heels all the time. Nothing too fancy or exciting really happens around Bag End.”

“When was the last time you were in a proper kitchen, laddie?” Dwalin asked.

“Do my school days count? Because that was it,” Bilbo admitted, looking sheepish.

“No professional experience then? None?” Thorin asked smugly.

Bilbo gestured around the space. “Last I checked, this was my profession and I’m running it just fine. When was the last time you did your own finances, your majesty?”

Dori and Balin nudged each other, looking back to Thorin with raised brows. The chef shot them a glare. “And why should I take on a pastry chef who has never worked in a professional kitchen and hasn’t had to work a dinner service since culinary school?”

“Listen,” with a finger pointed a Thorin, Bilbo rose from his seat and leaned in, “I’m not making you hire me. If you need a pastry chef, I’m right here. Otherwise go find someone else. I was under the impression that this was a  _ favor _ Gandalf was doing for you.” He looked over to his petit four and gestured over to them. “Take whatever you want and leave if you think I’ve been feeding you swill for the last hour and a half. I’m going for a walk.” With that he walked out the front door, the bell jingling merrily in his wake. An uncomfortable silence settled in as eyes began to turn to Thorin who sat dumbfounded where Bilbo had left him.

The sound of a chair scraping across the wood floor jolted a few members back to life. Balin rose and began to collect and distribute the petit four amongst the group. A plate clattered down in front of Thorin. “My boy, that was some of the loveliest, most thoughtful baking I’ve had the pleasure of eating in a long time. You’re not your grandfather, Thorin. Stop acting like it.”

A heavy weight settled in the pit of the chef’s stomach that had nothing to do with the food he had eaten. Balin was right. Every bite had been delicious and here he was, making a fool of himself. Before him sat a single tiny cake, covered in what looked like a chocolate icing. He took his fork and parted the dessert down the middle. To his surprise the cake was clearly not made with traditional pale almond paste, but some rather with some sort of dark sponge. He lifted a bite to his mouth. He had never had anything like this. It was nutty and spiced, the buttercream clearly containing cinnamon. The expressions around the table indicated a similar sentiment of pleasant surprise. 

“Gandalf,” he said. “Would you help me with cleaning up while the gang heads out?”

Thirty minutes later the dishwasher was chugging away in the kitchen, tables had been wiped down, and the floors had been swept. Gandalf and Thorin sat opposite each other, waiting for the shop’s owner to return. They didn’t have to wait long, for shortly after sitting down, the man of the hour reappeared at the shop door, stopping dead when he saw the two visitors that remained. Gandalf beckoned him to join the pair inside at the table. 

Like a rabbit unsure if the next steps lead to safety or a wolf’s waiting jaws, Bilbo slowly opened the door. “Have a seat, my boy.” And he did.

On a plate at the center of the table was a single petit four. “Tell me what I ate,” Thorin said, eyes fixed on the baker. 

“Cake made with acorn flour paired with cinnamon buttercream and covered in a dark chocolate glaze.” The explanation was short and to-the-point, with little in the way of eye contact.

“Acorn flour?”

“I make it in small batches. It’s just… I don’t know. I like using things I can find around town, or in the woods, or in the farmers market when I can. Acorns are nice because you can keep them around for a while.” A pause. “Listen, Thorin-- Mr. Durin-- I make things that make me happy. I’m not interested in making loads of money from a baking gig at a big restaurant. If you want my help, you can have it, but I won’t stand by and let you beat me up over the little things that make me happy like this.”

He looked up, finding that Thorin had extended his hand out to him, “Mr. Baggins, it would seem I’ve made a bit of an ass of myself here today. I’m not asking you to sign anything, not now anyway, not yet. But I would like you to come to Lonely Mountain on Saturday for dinner-- on the house-- and see where we’re at. If you want, we can talk employment then. But if you can make something like that,” his free hand gestured toward the dessert on the table, “consistently, we’d be happy to have you.”

The offered hand was left hanging just long enough for Thorin to doubt his abilities as a diplomat (not that he nor Gandalf had been confident to begin with). But then Bilbo took it and shook more firmly than Thorin had been expecting.

“I’ll be there.”

That night Thorin stared up at the ceiling, thinking about acorns and lemon curd, pears that smelled of spiced wine and grapefruits seasoned with mint. He had one week to prepare himself and to make his restaurant look like it could handle a switch from vanilla and chocolate staples to something new and vibrant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind words! I have been blown away by the response to this fic so far and I hope I can keep the momentum going.
> 
> Anyway I guess I'm on Twitter or something at [@inqueersitor_m](https://twitter.com/inqueersitor_m) if y'all are interested in that sort of thing.


	3. Steak Diane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continental classic. Known for going up in flames.

Four cooks sat at a table in a dimly lit dining room along with a maître d' and a sommelier. In front of the seven men, spread out on the table, was a menu, a drink list, and a short list of names next to time slots for the following day. 

“I say we keep it,” said one of the chefs. His large, tattooed hand reached out for the menu. “You want to show him what a normal night of service looks like, then that’s what we should do. It’s not like we haven’t had this menu up on the website for ages anyway; we wouldn’t be fooling anyone.”

A large man with fiery red hair nodded next to him. “Aye, I’ve talked with Óin about it and we really don’t have the means to be running around trying to change orders from our purveyors at the last minute. We have what we have, I’m afraid.”

Thorin nodded solemnly. He had known going into this little meeting that there was little that could be done on such short notice to improve the overall appearance of Lonely Mountain. “Let’s just do what we can. Balin? Have you reviewed the reservation list? Anyone we should know about?”

Balin shook his head, “Nobody of note on the list for tomorrow except for Mr. Baggins.”

“Alright. Let’s keep everything running smoothly tomorrow, yeah?”

The team nodded with a resounding “Yes, Chef!” If this dinner could go off without a hitch, just like every other service this month, then maybe Thorin could land himself a new pastry chef-- one that, according to Gandalf, was a one-in-a-million find.

“Now get up off your asses and let’s get this place cleaned up!”

The following morning, Thorin’s team was busy preparing for that night’s service and he was feeling good about the upcoming service. He had done this hundreds of times. His food wasn’t  _ bad _ , per se. If anything, the cuisine of Lonely Mountain was  _ traditional. _ But in the modern hay-day of restaurants like Carrock, Tirith at Gondor, and Riddermark, traditional simply could not compete with innovative. That being said, Thorin still maintained confidence in his ability to produce a quality meal.

His staff was experienced and everything was running like usual. By the end of the night he would certainly have a new member of the team and, if Gandalf was right, a new outlook on the life of the restaurant. He smiled as he peeled potatoes. This was all under his control.

Hours later, when dinner was well underway and Bilbo was set to show up at any minute, Balin popped into the kitchen. “Table four has been seated. Three guests. Your table, Ori.”

The young server, currently busy grabbing a plate to take out to another table, nodded. “I’ll be right there, Mr. Fundinson!”

“No pastry chefs, yet?” asked Thorin.

“Not yet, laddie; just wait,” Balin replied with a smile before heading back out to the dining room.

In the future, if Thorin were asked to pinpoint the moment that the night went pear-shaped, it would have been precisely five minutes later when Ori scuttled back into the kitchen looking somewhat unnerved as he pinned the dupe to the board in view of the line cooks.

“What’s got you worked up, boy?” asked Thorin.

“Nothing, chef. It’s just that, well, table four’s a bit rowdy...”

Dwalin’s voice thundered from the other side of the kitchen. “You gonna expedite there, boss? Or are you gonna sit there and make small talk with the crew?”

“Mushroom tartlet, tartare, and scallops for table four. Get on it.” 

“Aye, Chef!”

Thorin moved to the door where he could see the table from the safety of the kitchen. Three large men sat at table four. None of them looked like he had ever been formally introduced to a vegetable. Sure enough, one of them was examining the salad fork as though it were some sort of alien surgical implement. Thorin groaned. “Let’s get them taken care of and sent on their way,” he said, turning to Ori. He glanced through the window again in time to see a small man walk through the doors. Balin greeted him and ushered him to a table near Ori’s troglodytes before making his way to the kitchen again.  _ Shit. _ Thorin cut him off before he could announce the newest guest. “I know. I saw. Ori? Can you take another table?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, Chef!” The kitchen door swung on its hinges as he scurried out the door again.

“Nothing else on table four? Just appetizers?” Dwalin hollered from the line.

“No. And the longer you ask me stupid questions, the longer they’re in the restaurant; now move! Balin, get Dori out there to assist Mr. Baggins with some wine pairings, please.” Thorin moved back into the kitchen to get working on orders. This hiccup was nothing. He’d worked plenty of rough nights and this was hardly an issue. It wouldn’t be an issue. He would have zero issues.

“Um… Uncle Thorin?”

Thorin turned on his heels, eyebrow raised in the direction of the shabby looking busser in front of him. 

“Chef,” the boy corrected himself. “Chef, uh…” Kili Nainson shifted nervously, balancing a few dirty plates and glassware in his hands. “Table four is totally hassling Dori.”

“What do you mean ‘totally hassling?’ What are they doing?”

“I dunno just, like, bothering him? Something about wanting help with their drinks, too.”

“What are they drinking?”   


“Looks like vodka cranberries. Why?” 

“Tell Nori to get them refills when they need it on the house. I’m sure they don’t think Dori needs to waste his time helping them get drunk.”

Kili nodded and headed back to the dishwashing station to drop off his handfuls of dirty dishes before journeying out again to the bar. As he exited the kitchen, Ori entered, pinning another dupe to the board-- Bilbo’s order-- before grabbing table four’s appetizers.

“Vegetable tartlet to start, then coque au vin,” Thorin murmured, looking at the ticket. “I’ll be seeing to this order personally, lads.”

Variants of “yes, chef” confirmed he was understood.

Shortly after Thorin had begun working on the tart, Ori returned with an untouched plate of tartare and set it gently next to Gloin’s elbow. “Mr. Gloin? Sir? Um…”

The mass of ginger hair, pulled back into a barely contained pony tail, rotated to face the youth. He looked at the plate in front of him, then back to Ori. “Problem?”

“He said it’s raw, Mr. Gloin…”

“Raw?”

“Raw.”

“This is--”

“Tartare, yeah… I explained to him that tartare is always served raw; he said he didn’t want it and won’t pay for raw food.”

A few spots down the line Thorin looked on, half stupefied and partially enraged. This was not the clientele he wanted. Lonely Mountain was better than this, wasn’t it? “Try to keep table four under control, Ori. Tell them that we’ll comp it and get an entrée order out of them if you can.”

“Yes, chef!”

Orders came and went until Bilbo’s tartlet was safely at his table.Thorin watched him examining the pastry crust with interest from behind the kitchen door. He watched as Balin approached the table and could make out some conversation.

“Everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Baggins?”

The man in question smiled up at the maître d'. “So far so good!”

“Oi! You some kind of fancy food critic, then? That what all this special attention’s ‘bout?” One of the men at table four leaned in to examine Bilbo’s plate. 

“Oh no! Nothing of the sort. Just a.. er.. friend of the owner is all.”

“Y’know he’s serving raw food? My brother Bert, here--”

Thorin turned away, not willing to ruin his own night by listening to anything further. He moved to his station and began browning chicken and cooking vegetables for Bilbo’s next dish.

When Ori’s entrance into the kitchen once again broke his focus, he had begun to let the chicken stew and was starting to prepare some additional vegetables. 

“Mr. Thorin? It’s table four, sir. They want to know if we have any mutton…”

“We’ve never had mutton on the menu, Ori, you know that.” Thorin looked at the boy quizzically. “What did you tell them?”

“That we don’t have mutton. But then they asked why and I told them that we just… don’t? I don’t even know how to answer that kind of question. I’ve never seen customers like them.”

Frankly, neither had Thorin. This was not the kind of crowd that Lonely Mountain was trying to draw in. At least, it hadn’t been all those years ago when Thror had first opened his doors to the public. And now he had his first prospective new employee in years sitting in the dining room, watching this trainwreck unfold. “I’m not sure what to say, lad. Do they know what they might want that  _ isn’t _ mutton?”

“They do now!” Balin jogged into the kitchen wearing a wide grin. “Our special guest has done you a great service, chef. One beef bourguignon, a filet mignon, and a roast chicken if you don’t mind, brother mine!”

Behind the line a tattooed hand flashed a thumbs up.

Thorin pulled Balin aside. “Care to explain to me what just happened?”

Balin’s smile grew impossibly wider. “Our little patissier stepped in to talk through what they like and recommended some dishes after they drove poor Ori away. Turns out Mr. Baggins can be quite the fast talker when push comes to shove.” 

Thorin nodded and began fretting over his savior’s coq au vin again. This whole night, he thought as he added mushrooms and additional onions to the chicken, had gone completely to hell. He plated the chicken, spooned the broth over it and garnished the plate. Taking a breath, he resolved himself to deliver the dish himself, apologize for the trainwreck, and wave goodbye to potential talent.

As he moved to the dining room two things immediately caught his eye. First, he saw that table four was now vacant. Then he saw that the previously empty seat next to Bilbo’s spot was occupied by a one Gandalf Olórin. How the man always managed to show up everywhere was beyond him. He placed the plate in front of Bilbo. “May I have a seat?”

Bilbo motioned toward the chair across from him. Thorin sat. 

“Has your meal been satisfactory, Mr. Baggins?”

Gandalf laughed before Bilbo could open his mouth. “You mean aside from the cave trolls seated two feet away and hopped up on vodka, my boy?”

Thorin groaned, then looked at Bilbo apologetically. “I sincerely apologize for the behavior of the other patrons here tonight. I can assure you that they won’t be in again if I can help it.” He paused, suddenly remembering that the group was, in fact, gone. “Where did they go anyway? I’m sure their dinner hasn’t been brought out yet.”

The old man shrugged. “I told them about a place down the road with a rack of lamb special. Oh don’t look at me like that, I’ll have the filet when it comes out and pay their tab. Don’t worry about it.” As if on cue, Ori approached, looking baffled by the empty table before him. “I’ll take the filet, Mr. Lindon. The rest can go back to the kitchen for the crew.” Still visually confused, but apparently satisfied, Ori nodded and did as he was told.

Meanwhile, Bilbo had begun delicately maneuvering his way around the plate of chicken in front of him. “Everything has been lovely, chef. Have you considered…” He paused. “Mr. Durin, I’m going to be frank with you.” 

“I hardly think that’s a problem for you,” Thorin said, “but go on.”

“It was all very good food, but I could go to just about any decent bistro in the area and get the same thing. I mean, you have talent in the kitchen, I’m sure, but… Why aren’t you letting them shine? Compliments to the chef and all that,” he said, gesturing to poultry on his plate, “but I’m sure the chef can do better.”

Gandalf looked at Thorin expectantly. Thorin blinked a few times. “These are old favorites, Mr. Baggins. I know you haven’t had lots of restaurant experience and that your expertise lies in pastry, but--”

“Now you listen here,” Bilbo interrupted. “My inexperience on the line has nothing to do with the fact that I  _ know food _ . I want you to look at the chef who made this delightful little meal. Look at them and tell them that this is their creative best. Tell them that they will never be allowed to achieve more than this.”

A strange silence settled over the table as the restaurant continued to hum around them. How many times had Thorin looked in the mirror and told himself just that? He risked a glance at Gandalf. He  _ knew _ . Of course he knew. He steeled himself and looked back at Bilbo. “What would you have me do?”

“Bring him on as a consultant.” Gandalf cut in. “That way you don’t have to be stuck with someone who hasn’t ‘had lots of restaurant experience,’” He screwed up his face into a pantomime of Thorin’s scowl as he said this, “if you don’t want to. Or take my friend on as a pastry chef and take a look at your menu together regardless. I can introduce you to some friends of mine who I think would be a good influence on you. Get inspired, schedule a grand reopening, and give me something to throw some money at,” he ended, flashing a grin at the two men.

Thorin glanced at him before looking back to the patissier. “And what would you prefer? We’ll take you; I’ve said as much before. To what extent you’d like to be involved is entirely up to you.”

“I… need to think about it, I suppose, if you’re giving me the option. There’s the question of my living situation. And of course I’ll need to make sure things are arranged appropriately for Prim and Drogo,” Bilbo eyed Gandalf as if the old man held the answers to unasked questions. Their mutual friend remained silent. “I want to help, if I can. I suppose I just haven’t put much thought into a time frame. There’s so much potential in this place. I can feel it. I want to help you make this place yours. From what Gandalf has told me, I think you’ve been your grandfather for so long… I think it would be nice for you to be Thorin Durin; I think you’d surprise people.”

Once, there had been a pastry chef employed at Lonely Mountain. They had made the most delightful dark chocolate mousse with kirsch and cherries. “A play on an old favorite” they had called it. Black forest gâteau had long since gone out of style and the first time anyone had tried it, they had all insisted that it was too boring to be served as a memorable last bite at a world class restaurant. Seconds later, they had all been pleasantly thrilled with the delicate dessert. He missed being surprised by food. With a sigh, Thorin stood and motioned toward the back of the house. “Let’s take a look at some paperwork, Mr. Baggins. We can work something out in my office.”

“Excellent!” Gandalf clapped his hands together. “And while you do that I will arrange some tastings with a few friends of mine. I’ll send you some schedules tomorrow! I’m thinking my contact at Valley Home Kitchen would be happy to meet with you. Go on now, Bilbo! We’ll be in touch!”

“Valley Home?” Thorin paused. “As in that stupid little clean eating place attached to the health spa in Dell?” Thorin snorted. “And I suppose I’m going to be inspired by a pile of kale or a tall glass of not-milk nut water?”

“Last I checked, that ‘stupid little place’ was in all of the latest food publications. Meanwhile… Remind me when the last time was that you had any sort of write up?”

“Smug bastard… Follow me, Mr. Baggins. We’re done here.” And then Thorin was on the move again and plotting a course for the kitchen. Bilbo picked up what was left of his dinner and his wine and followed to the small office, leaving Gandalf chuckling in his seat. 

In the end, after an hour or so of discussion, it was agreed that Bilbo would be brought on as the new full-time pastry chef of Lonely Mountain once he could arrange for a more local living situation and would work with the existing menu until Thorin saw fit to begin a transition. Bilbo, happily munching on the remainder of his dinner throughout negotiations, had a few questions here and there about staff (who was who and what were their jobs), the equipment (“Not a single proofing rack?! How am I supposed to get mine all the way over here?”), and the history of the restaurant. As their discussions began wrapping up and Bilbo was moving toward the door he had, it seemed, a final question. “When were you planning on introducing me to the cook who fed me this evening?”

“You’ve met him,” Thorin said quietly as he ushered the man out of his office. “Whether he can achieve more than what he made for you tonight remains to be seen. Have a good evening, Mr. Baggins. I’ll see you when Gandalf gets something on the calendar with his friend at Valley Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely words of support you've left over the past month! Again, I'm blown away by how well received this has been and I apologize for long delay in updating! My work situation has been a bit hectic and hopefully with my new job starting this month, things should smooth out again. 
> 
> Once again, if you're inclined to listen to me outside of fiction, I can be found on Twitter @Inqueersitor_m


	4. An update

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> State of the Fic Address

Hello my lovelies!

I have been working for far too long on the first draft of the next chapter but have hit some pretty major bumps.

My new job was put on hold indefinitely for Covid related layoffs and furloughs at the company. To occupy my time and stay afloat I have been pouring my time and effort into odd jobs and continuing education for my career.

This, too, has gone to a complete standstill. I am writing this on my phone in a hospital bed waiting to have surgery done on a badly broken arm. I am out of commission for a while now.

I promised myself that I would finish this fic and I will. It is just going to take more time than I thought it would.

Thank you to each and every one of you who has taken the time to read, comment, bookmark, and subscribe to this work. I can't wait to share more with you when I'm back in action.

All the love in this world,  
Max

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I have one hand I can still Tweet!
> 
> Come by and say hi at @inqueersitor_m


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